


Twisted Turns

by CjHoax



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Flashbacks, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insane Killer, Mentions of Rape, Murder, Murder is a Hobby, Mutilation, Other, Past Torture, Revenge, Torture, mentions of snuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-05 05:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14037246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CjHoax/pseuds/CjHoax
Summary: Wynter Quarrill is a Detective of the infamous serial killer 'The Chef of Humanity'Little does she know that she has already met face-to-face with her greatest enemy, she just doesn't remember it.





	1. A Normal Day at Work

I don’t remember the reason I started this path. Perhaps it was my mother who abandoned me, the father who beat me, the friends who jumped me, or the society that shunned me. All I remember is the flavors. Each of them unique and distinct, sharp and savory screams, the acidity of agony, the tooth achingly sweet cries of mercy, and the ultimate detectability of death. Even now my gut hungers for the transcendent taste of having another scream as you destroy their very being.  
You see my apprentice, you do not just kill those who slight you, you destroy their very will to live. For, it is certainly better to have the appetizer before you dine is it not?   
￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣  
Why?  
What could I have done?  
I’m a good girl…   
I don’t deserve this…   
I am not what It calls me…   
Am I?  
Am I really a traitorous, conniving, whore for power?  
Why else would I be here?  
Why else would It take my sight?  
Why else would It steal my innocence?  
Wait…  
That’s right…   
I was pure…   
I wasn’t a whore…  
Was I?  
I can’t think straight.  
Who am I again?  
What am I?  
What’s that voice?  
What is it saying?  
“Come on ya’ dirty slut, wake the fuck up!” It’s faint but it’s there. A voice.  
“ I ain’t got all day, you backstabbing cunt, I have others to to prep.”  
“Is he talking to me?”  
“Yeah, you. The little bitch who thought she was gonna be clever and steal what’s his.”  
I said that outloud? “I st-stole?” I croak, my throat screaming in protest against even that tiny phrase.  
“Yes Investigator Wynter Quarrill, you who thought you could steal his favoritest toy.”  
My name, Wynter Quarrel, that’s what my name is? And ‘Investigator’, was I a cop, why was I trying to steal if I was a cop?  
“Well damn, our time is up, The Professor will be with you now.”  
I don’t know why, but as soon as he said that name, I felt something tie itself up in my throat and chest. That something, I realized, was fear, pure undiluted fear.   
“She’s all yours Professor.”  
Then I hear the door, that I hadn’t even noticed, open and standing there is-  
￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣  
Detective Wynter Quarrill bolted up from her desk, drool having stuck a paper to her face, which she quickly ripped away. Wynter Quarrill was an attractive woman of her early thirties, her pale skin combined with her petite, near waifish body suited her four foot four height. “Damn,” she muttered, “ that same nightmare again.” brushing a lock of her long, mousy hair behind her ear.  
“The one with the yodelling parrot or the one with a haunted fleashlight?” a deep rumbling voice sounds out ,with no lack of humor, from behind me. I whirl around ,so quick my neck and spine pop, to see my senior partner, Special Detective Warren Fidato. I immediately relax at the sight of his towering six foot five figure, his wide, robust frame a comforting sight to my still frazzled nerves.  
“Neither, the one about him.” my frigid tone immediately wipes the humor from his aged Italian face.  
“Look Wyn,” he starts, “those flashbacks of yours are becoming too frequent, please just go to a therapist or take a rest.” he pleads for the millionth time this month.  
I roll my eyes at his overprotective side rearing its head. “I’ll sleep when I see him in a coffin.” I retort.  
“I tried.” His massive shoulders shaking in barely controlled amusement. It was then I notice that he did not come back to the office empty handed, three large cups of coffee cradled in a carrier gripped by his right hand.  
“COFFEE!” I squealed as he loses his composure and his booming laugh nearly echos in the room as I scramble to grab my much needed caffeine.  
￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣  
It truly was a shame I could not finish that particular feast, her circumstances were of the best picking; both parents in her life, financially well off, moral pillars of the community, and most enticingly, her becoming assigned to track poor ole’ me down and throw me in the slammer. Oh how much fun I had, leaving just enough clues to point her in the right direction while just too little for her to get close. That particular game of Cat & Mouse was by far the most fun I’ve had outside of my, ah, entertainment room. I did get bored, as I’m wont to do, and I finally brought home the bacon. Her cries and screams were so sublime I just had to stretch out her cooking as long as I possibly could. She has recently begun to get tantalizingly close, oh so very close; It just makes my mouth water. Ah yes my most precious toy, my dearest sweet Wynter. Soon you will be back under my tender care as I tease out your wonderous flavor.  
￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣  
Warren and I were heading to a crime scene, one of his crime scenes. Very few even entertained the idea of such a man, if he can even be called that, would come to exist in this era, ‘The Chef of Humanity’ he was called. Many after hearing his alias for the first time assumed he was a cannibal, he was but he was so much worse. He was hauntingly precise in his crimes, he first scoured the globe in search of his victim. Once he found someone to his taste, he watches, waits, and plans. Watches, for a time and place he can abduct his victim. Waits, for the perfect moment to strike. Plans, for how he will enjoy his ‘meal’. From what we know; from autopsies, mocking letters or packages he sends us, and the few survivors that escape his grasp, he takes his time. First; he isolates you, sets up events to where you lose friends, relationships, even loved ones. Second; he demonizes you, makes you look like the bad guy, starts rumors, and destroys your hard-earned reputation. Third; he makes you vanish; from the very face of the Earth. Fourth; he tortures you, mentally, physically, emotionally, and even sometimes sexually. Fifth; he breaks you, complete and total deconstruction of personality and individuality. Sixth; he ‘feasts’, taking what he deems ‘choice cuts’ and cooking them in a ‘fitting manor’, serving the victim to not only to himself but to the victim as well. Seventh; he ‘disposes of the refuse’, by making ‘art’ displaying what's left of the victims mutilated corpse is formed into some parody of nature or reflection of why they attracted his interest, flowers, greed, animals, wealth, etc. Rinse and repeat. I snapped out of my daze when Warren shook my shoulder, we had arrived.  
The site had a menagerie of different police departments, from the NYPD, State Troopers, and even the Hazmat Team. As we passed people rushing about the area, we overheard several conversations about the type of scene we knew was coming; “Gruesome as all hell.” “Poor girl.” “... once I get my hand on the bastard I’ll …” “What kind of man could do something like this?”   
Warren actually answers the question with,” The same one who has, in the span of 35 years, 7 months, and 17 days, committed; 560 confirmed counts of Torture, Inhumane Treatment, and Violations of Human Rights, over 550 confirmed counts of First Degree Murder, at least 493 counts of Desecration of the Human Body, 465 of which involve Cannibalism, 437 counts of Rape or Sexual Assault, some 400 counts of Distributing of Human Organs, 279 counts of Theft of Identity, 237 counts of Destruction of Evidence of which 187 were acts of Arson, and 45 counts of Killing Officers of The Law.”  
The young man stared slack-jaw at the list of crimes, which had moved up steadily since I had joined the team in 2010. “You know him better by the moniker ‘The Chef of Humanity’.” I explain to the poor boy.  
“But,” he takes a calming breath,”that would mean he would be in his mid fifties by now.”  
“Just take us to the site.” my ever blunt partner demands of the rookie cop. He stutters out a quick ‘Yes Sir’, and asks us to follow him down the sidewalk to a nearby alley.   
On our was there he briefs us on the victim, “A one ‘Mellisa K. Hofferson, been missing for 8 months before now, 17, attends Townsend Harris High School, next of kin have been notified and are waiting at the 5th precinct for your questions.” We were just about to the to the mouth of where the most current ‘display’ resides.  
As we turn the corner to the alley we see the victim, pinned to the wall by 4 rebar poles driven into her pelvis and shoulders. Her face had been pinned into a macabre likeness to a soft smile. Her intestines had been removed, leaving her reproductive organs free to be sewn up to resemble where they would normally be situated. Her legs had been broken and manipulated to form a cradle that held a disturbed blanket. The girls arms had been articulated to cover her modesty, what was left of it anyway. Her ribcage had been completely removed to display her lack of a heart, which had most likely been eaten.  
“The blanket had been holding an infant, who’s crying had alerted a nearby beat cop to investigate after the crying hadn’t stopped for about fifteen minutes.” our guide stated, clearly becoming green in the face at the sight.  
“And who was the cop?” I asked while stepping closer to inspect the poor girl.  
“Officer McAllen, ma’am, he’s being treated for shock at the Lenox Hill Hospital.”, at this point I can tell he’s in his first year of being a cop, probably the first time even being near a homicide like this, a first for the city actually.  
“And the child?”   
“Same hospital, general check-up”  
This time Warren asks the question, “When was the scene discovered?”  
“Approximately, 8:30 sir.”  
Warren takes a quick glance at his watch, and after doing some mental calculations says that the victim has been up for at a minimum of an hour. “ About time someone takes the poor girl down dontcha think?”  
“Hazmat is setting up now.” The poor boy is so green he could be mistaken for the Grinch.  
I turn to him and say, “Go tell them to hurry it up, we’ve seen enough.” I had barely finish by the time he bolts from the alley.  
Warren chuckles briefly at the rookie cop, but he quickly sobers, “He’s too green to be on this site.”   
Despite myself i can’t help but giggle at the pun.“If that’s a pun I’m going to hurt you.” looking at his face from my peripheral, I see he hadn’t even looked away from the ‘art’, curious I walk up to him and reach up to tap his shoulder.   
Warren sighs and calmly turns to walk out of the ally, pulling out his flask of whiskey and flicking open the top in a smooth practiced motion. As we reach the opening he tips the flask to the side, spilling the liquor onto the pavement in a farewell. Just when we were exiting the alley the, squad of Hazmat charges in, armed with chemicals, powerwashers, and a body bag. “Looks like we have another count to add.” he mutters in disappointment.  
“Normally it’s every month he has a new victim, this is the first one in seven months, you should be grateful he was so focused on her.” partially consoling and angering him.  
“But that girl was with him for at least eight.” he bites back hottly. That, I hadn’t thought of it like that. With such a normal schedule of murder we had celebrated when we past the six month mark of no, as we morbidly called them, ‘human sculptures’. Then I thought of why the sick bastard would hold onto someone so long, “The child, he was waiting for the child.”  
That single sentence makes me feel as if a bucket of ice had been poured down my back, the child, the fucking child. “Shit.”, the curse falls from my lips as I think about the ramifications of what that means. Was there a twin? Tripletes? What nightmares had that monster done to those poor children?   
I snap out of my daze when I hear someone call my name, “Detective Quarrill! Detective Quarrill!”, great, the media. “Detective Quarrill, who was the victim?” “What was the motive?” “Why has The Chef of Humanity come back?” “Do you think this is a copycat?”. I sigh as I move over to the vultures, being the face of this high of a case is a right pain in the ass.  
“To answer your questions,” I take a deep breath to gather my thoughts quickly, “ the victim was a minor so until we are given express permission by the next of kin we are unable to disclose the personal details of the deceased. Further questions will be answered once we are certain of the details surrounding this unfortunate incident.” Unsatisfied with my vague answer, the all yell and push over each other to ask the next question. Too bad I’m already halfway to my car and can’t be bothered to look back, I have my own questions for the family.


	2. Follow Up

Warren and I pull up to the 5th precinct building, swarming with enough reporters to make a sardine can look cozy. I quickly get out and try to shove my way through the throng, key word being ‘try’. Warren quickly realizes my dilemma and thinks of a brilliant, and mortifying, solution; picking me up. Warren doesn’t even try to get my consent, knowing we’ll be arguing for hours over it, he just hoists me up like I’m a damn paperweight, and at a solid 75 pounds, I might as well be. Thankfully he learned his lesson last time, to not sling me over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes, setting me on his nape _still_ makes me look like a little girl, just not as humiliating as the alternative. Warren then shoved aside anyone in his way to the opening of the precinct, several squawking in anger and surprise at both him moving people aside like foliage and me sitting on his neck like a child trying to get a view of a parade. He finally set me down once we were inside the opening arch of the building.  
Just inside the doors we’re greeted by a stocky man with clear asian ancestry, spotting us as soon as the doors close behind us, and quickly walks right up to us introducing himself as Deputy Inspector Thomas Jǐngchá. “Morning detectives,” his voice rough and somewhat scratchy, “ you’re here for the Hofferson family I assume?”  
Warren nods in confirmation as I introduce us, “Yes, we are Detectives Wynter Quarrill and Warren Fidato, here to talk to the Hofferson family.” Remembering the child, I quickly add, “We would also request that the infant discovered on the scene be given a Maternity Test to the victim. I imagine they will want to meet a possible family member.”  
“Already being done ma’am.” D.I. Jǐngchá replied curtly.  
I nod in approval saying, “Let’s get to the waterpark then.”  
￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣  
As we near the room holding the Hofferson’s, the door bangs open, revealing a fairly average man in his mid-to-late forties, Mr. Hofferson, “WHAT’S TAKING SO DAMN LONG?!” A frustrated and impatient Mr. Hofferson it appears. Mr. Hofferson then takes notice of our little trio, whirling around with a glint in his eye. “I swear to God if you brought in another therapist, I will march out of here and hunt those ‘Specialists’ down myself.”  
I calmly step forward, arms held up placatingly, and speak in a softer that normal voice, “Morning Mr. Hofferson, I am Detective Wynter Quarrill and the man on my right is Special Detective Warren Fidota. We are the specialists on The Chef of Humanity case.”  
His demeanor sets into a stoic expression so tight he could’ve been a statue. Through grit teeth he growls, “What in the nine layers of _Hell_ took you so damn long?” His demeanor is so accusatory I feel he could make a nun feel guilty.  
“We were in Philadelphia when we got the call about your daughter, I’m sorry for your loss.” My soft voice seems to quell the furnace of anger he has roaring in his stomach, somewhat at least.  
He takes several slow deep breaths before turning on his heel, forcing out a “Answers. _**Now**_.” Walking into the small room on the 4th floor of the precinct, I was greeted by an all to familiar sight, a broken family. Mr. Hofferson made a beeline to his bawling wife, wrapping her up into a hug as he whispered softly into her ear that we were here and she can ask her questions soon.  
Warren squeezed his massive frame into the room while I turned to thank Mr. Jǐngchá and tell him to get back to his duties. After closing the door, I took in the room in greater detail, aside from Mr. and Mrs. Hofferson there was a young man in some rather beat up clothes with a duffel bag next to him, ‘Rushed from work over on Roosevelt Island.’ was his explanation after noticing my gaze on his bag.  
I nod and turn to the person next to his duffel, a blonde woman with the ‘supermodel’ body, her shoulder length locs are frizzy and disheveled. She must have felt my gaze and looks up to reveal her makeup is a mess and that her face looks nothing like anyone else in to room. “Are you the specialists?” her hope filled question reveals a heavy Russian accent, a transfer student?  
“Yes, I am Detective Wynter Quarrill and my partner here is Special Detective Warren Fidato, we’re here to talk about Mellisa.” As if by saying her name I’ve cast a pall and the humming room turns deafening with the silence.  
Surprisingly, it’s Mrs. Hofferson who speaks first, “Where is my daughter?” despite being phrased as a question is anything but, it was a demand.  
“Most probably in the morgue.” I sigh at my partner’s bluntness.  
“Yes, she is most likely in the morgue, having her cause of death determined.”  
A choked sob escapes before her crying resumes at the same level as when we first entered. I turn to Mr. Hofferson and ask the first of my questions, “Mr. Hofferson, I know this will be hard but, were you aware if weather or not your Mellisa was pregnant at the time of her disappearance?”  
His eyes widen in surprise while Mrs. Hofferson’s cries take a brief halt as she takes in the new information, before renewing in even higher intensity. “N-n-no. We had no clue.” I then turn to the other two people in the room and I can immediately tell that they knew or at least had a clue about Mellisa’s condition.  
The boy speaks up, “We knew, we found out a few weeks before she went missing.” The blonde slowly nods in agreement at his words.  
_That_ brought the entirety of Mr. Hofferson’s attention onto the pair as they try to make their bodies disappear into their seats. “ _What_.” that single word made both of them snow white, scared out of their minds by the tone in Mr. Hofferson’s hiss. “What do you mean that you knew she was pregnant?”  
The boy, scared stiff, wasn’t able to respond, forcing the blonde to answer. “We didn’t know how to tell you,” her downcast gaze oozed shame, “ she was constantly having morning sickness and when she told me, I joked that she was pregnant.”  
“That’s when she asked me to buy one because her friend worked in the store.” Huh, seems the boy had gotten his spine back. “Being the brother she never had, I felt obligated to help her and when she begged me not to tell you guys, well…” His shrug at the end of his words did more harm than good, by pissing Mr. Hofferson right the fuck off.  
**“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU KEPT THE FACT MY BABY GIRL WAS PREGNANT FROM ME!!”** This, this was actually a first for me, seeing a man that red was cause for medical concern.  
_**“BECAUSE WE KNEW YOU WOULD REACT THIS WAY!”**_ Yep, definitely got his spine back.  
**“YOU HAD NO RIGHT!”**  
 _ **“I AM HER BROTHER!”**_  
 **“I. Am. Her. FATHER!”**  
Just when I thought Warren would have to seperate them, Mrs. Hofferson fearlessly stepped between the two men who towered over her by a good eight inches each. Pressing her palm on both their sternums, she spoke in firm voice that belied none of her earlier crying, “Calm down, the both of you.” Just those six simple words brought Mr. Hofferson and the boy from boiling to room temp., a look of guilt on both of their faces. “John,” she spoke turning to the boy, “James had every right to know that our daughter was pregnant.” Turning to her husband, “John was doing what he thought was best for Mellisa, nothing more, nothing less. Now both of you apologize, to each other and the detectives.” It was amazing to watch both cowed men mutter apologies to everyone, Mrs. Hofferson was definitely a maternal figure like none I’d ever seen.  
It took me a moment to notice the blonde stand and apologize to Mrs. Hofferson, as it she was the one who had just nearly come to blows with Mr. Hofferson. “It’s fine Nika, you couldn’t have done anything to stop them.” The now named Nika, just nodded with more tears bubbling up, as she walked over to John and hugged him from behind and muttering things I couldn’t hear into his ear. I tore my gaze from the touching scene to look at Mrs. Hofferson in clear curiosity. She noticed my gaze and smiled warmly and began to talk in a voice that was coated in maternal experience, “Sorry about that Detectives, you have many questions I’m sure.” I could hardly believe it, the same woman who had been crying since long before we entered the room was standing with maternal grace, the puffiness around her eyes the only thing that ruined the image of the perfect mother.  
Warren handled the rest of the conversation between the group of four, his bluntness causing little problems for a change.  
￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣￣  
“PLEASE NO! DON’T DO THIS! PLE-” Ah, finally have the little cunt’s tounge. I swear, with the how much screaming she’s done, it’s a fucking miracle I can hear myself think.  
“Is my dish ready?” Fuck, now Chef is hungry and impatient.  
“Almost Good Chef.” Great now I’ll have to cook on a time crunch. I shrug and bring the tongue to the cutting board, better butterfly it so the damn thing cooks faster.  
“Wha? Wha di I du?” Note to self, cut vocal chords before processing.


End file.
